Frankie Bradshaw Archives - thespyinthestalls.com

★★★★

“The performances are exceptionally strong. Collins is impressive as the loose cannon, unpredictable and unsure of herself.”

Two characters, a world apart, are thrown together in Bess Wohl’s play, “Barcelona”. The cultural divide is as gaping as you can get but our first glimpse of them sees them in an intimate, tongue-wrapping clinch, awkwardly fumbling in the semi-darkness of a plain apartment in Barcelona. As they break away from each other, she is far from tongue tied. Everything is ‘cute’. She has clearly had too much to drink, whereas he has had too much to think about. This is preceded by a burst of ill-fitting, dramatic music which is at odds with the tone of the opening scene. Yet we soon discover the inconsistency is deliberate as Wohl’s clever writing unfolds.

It is a deceptive piece. Seemingly shallow but concealing some dark waters beneath its surface. A surface riddled with metaphors and dramatic ironies once you get the knack of spotting them. Irene (Lily Collins) is an American, washed up in the Spanish city in an extended bachelorette party. Manuel (Álvaro Morte) has come from Madrid to stay in the apartment for reasons that become clear later. It turns out she was the one who picked him up in the bar – a kind of dare almost. Things have gone a bit further than she may have intended, but for now she is more than willing to go with the flow.

We start out not really caring. What is the attraction? Why have they come together? The initial carnal fumbling is sexless, and the reactionless chemistry leaves us cold. She is intensely irritating. He is incessantly irritated. After a particularly leaden faux pas, Irene exclaims ‘I hope I didn’t ruin the ambience’. For a moment we wonder where the ambience is that she is referring to. Yet – as the layers are chipped away, revelations appear bit by bit. Like that game in which another square reveals more of the picture. The more we cotton on, the more we engage. They are no longer caricatures but complex characters; a lack of motive or intention now replaced by twisted backstories that inspire sympathy.

The performances are exceptionally strong. Collins is impressive as the loose cannon, unpredictable and unsure of herself. Her innate paranoia and mistrust run deeper than the Rioja that she is knocking back. Clueless on the outside but clued up enough to sense that something is amiss. Morte gives a startlingly solid performance. Possessing a European no-nonsense savoir faire he appears carefree yet, when left alone for brief moments, his expressions betray a sinister danger. They are both their own wrecking balls and we wait for the self-destruction.

However, neither can quite hide the excesses of the text that, even at a slim ninety minutes, carry a little too much excess weight, while the dialogue could do with a quick work out. Manuel has less to say but perversely he says so much more, which is where Wohl’s writing works wonders as the larger arguments appear out of the subtle magic of small talk. There is a gorgeous moment when Manuel picks apart Irene’s declaration of being ‘proud to be an American’. In a dismissive and heartfelt swoop, Manuel issues a polemic that covers a landscape of imperialism, displacement, ancestry even touching on genocide. The politics that seep into the arguments manage to sit perfectly with the personal; while references to the al-Qaeda terrorist attack in Madrid take on a harrowing emotional quality.

Lynette Linton’s tight direction moves the action neatly from its long night’s journey into day, the passage of time wonderfully evoked by Jai Morjaria’s lighting and haunting use of shadows. As daybreak creeps through the side window, self-knowledge (for Irene at least) dawns with the realisation that maybe she knows nothing. A Socratic paradox that represents a kind of umbrella under which the characters try to shelter from their own conundrums. Outside the apartment window is Barcelona’s famous Basílica de la Sagrada Família. Building began in 1882, but it is still unfinished. It is a fitting metaphor. The play, ultimately, suffers from a lack of resolution. It feels like an episode of a much greater story. An utterly enticing instalment, nonetheless. Another paradox. By curtain call, we feel like we’ve had enough. Yet we are left wanting more.